


How Not to Steal a Loaf of Bread

by malyce



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Eponine is a BAMF, F/M, Valjean and Éponine friendship, Why doesn't Valjean have more fangirls?, implied Valjean/Fantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malyce/pseuds/malyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean catches Eponine committing the same crime for which he served 20 years on the chain gang. Writen in 2nd person, Eponine point of view. Written 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

First, try to resist the temptation to go back to the house.

This will last for a few days, until you are lying in bed with hunger gnawing at your bones. You were lucky not to get a beating for waking the whole neighborhood with your screams; you can still feel a small scratch in the back of your throat. In the next room, you can hear your father and mother talking. Your papa is making another elaborate excuse about where the money went this time, and you know that you should be relieved that he doesn't mention your name. Somehow, the reminder that your mother and father don't know where their next meal is coming from makes it that much harder to ignore the stabbing pain in your stomach.

The next night, you sneak back to the neighborhood of Rue Plummet in the shadows, moving quietly and cat-like through the streets. You manage to get to the back of the house without drawing anyone's attention, and slip in through the kitchen door.

You freeze in place when you hear the shuffling of heavy boots on wooden floors.

There are two heavy silver candle holders under your arms. You're also chewing a handful of bread that you couldn't resist shoving into your mouth because you are so hungry, and it feels good just to have something solid between your teeth. You can feel the gritty combination of crumbs and saliva on your chin, as if you guilt wasn't already scrawled all over you in red ink.

The man has white hair, and piercing blue eyes that seem to stare through you like judgement itself. You stare between the slants of firelight from the lantern at the shadows that move across his face like the bars of a jail cell. You are waiting for him to grab you, to force you into the streets before he sends the law after you. Or worse; what if he kills you on sight? You watch helplessly as his eyes drift to the loaf of bread in your arms and some unrecognizable expression flickers across his face.

You flinch when he speaks; not because he is yelling, but because his voice is barely louder than a whisper.

"My dear, that bread will go stale in your hands if you don't finish eating."

His voice is as soft as the flickering light in that rusty metal lantern. Unsure of what to do next, you finish eating.

You try not to whimper at the sensation of fullness after so much emptiness, of food in your belly after so much time without. You realize that he is watching you, giving you a smile that is sad, but understanding.

When he asks if you're still hungry, try to keep from nodding your head vigorously. Try to have some semblance of the dignity and grace you've seen Marius and his friends exhibit. Try not to beg him for something more substantial than bread.

Fail miserably.

You forget any semblance of shame as you wolf down mouthfuls of beef, bread, and vegetable stew. The entire world has been reduced to the taste of beef and vegetables. Everything else has dwindled into insignificance.

While you're eating, the target of your burglary examines the lock to the kitchen door by candle light.

"There's not a scratch on this lock," he says, "Did you use a file or a proper lock pick?"

"An old hairpin with some lantern oil." you reply, wondering why it almost sounds like he's proud of you.

You summon the nerve to ask how a respectable man in a house like this knows so much about picking locks. He grimaces slightly and evades the question, only telling you he's going to visit the locksmith first thing in the morning.

You decide that it's probably not a good idea to keep reminding this man that you've just broken into his house and robbed him.

He looks surprised when you tell him your parents' names. Practically everyone in Paris has dealings with them: some legitimate, most of them not.

"I'll take the candle holders back," he says, "for now, at least." You give him your most innocent face when he glances meaningfully at the folds of your skirts.

"A young lady would not come this far to break into my house unless she had no other choice," he says, "so I'll trust you to put all the silverware back in the cabinet, if you please."

For modesty's sake, he leaves the room and gives you a chance to unpin your skirts and replace every piece of silver back in the cabinet.

You realize that he's giving you chance to do the decent, honest thing.

You are your father's daughter. You wish you could crawl into the floor boards and disappear, go anywhere to escape the memory of those eyes and their annoying refusal to judge you.

You argue when he refuses to let you go back out into the night on your own before you come to your senses and realize that you can't remember ever having had a warm bed in a quiet house. As he leads you to a spare room next to Cosette, you wonder what he means he he mutters, "God forgive me for not doing this sooner."


	2. Chapter 2

You remember Cosette as a tiny skeleton dressed in rags, struggling under the weight of a mop. The sopping water soaked the edges of her old muslin dress, making her shiver. She seemed to move like a ghost, drifting from one room to another as though she were detached from the rest of the world. And like a ghost, she disappeared in the middle of the night. You notice that she _still_ stops in every room and checks the corners for dust. Your mother used to beat her if the floors weren't sparkling.  
  
One morning, your mother told you that the little lark's father had come in the night to claim her. You wondered if fathers just materialized out of thin air like angels, and if anyone would ever pay your parents to take _you_ far away from the inn.  
  
Years of hunger have taken away your beauty, made your hair stringy and thin. Cosette has grown pretty; she's all curls, dimples, and eyelashes. You borrow one of her old dresses. It's too big for you; she has curves in places where you have straight lines, hips and thighs where you have bones.  
The old man tells you to call him Monsieur Fabre. Even if his voice didn't shake just a little, you'd be able to tell that it was a false name. Years of following your father on business have helped you develop a keen ear for invented names.  
  
He tells you that you are to stay in Rue Plumet until he can find another place for you to stay; someplace _far_ outside of Paris. He doesn't specifically _say, "_ Away from those wretched people who raised you," but it's hard to ignore the implication. He has safe houses in other districts, but he won't tell you where. You will also get a small amount of money that will serve as either a living allowance or a dowry, and possibly a job in a factory somewhere outside of town. The work won't be easy, but he will make sure that it is honest and safe, that it ends long before sundown, and that you get to keep all of your wages. Those are luxuries you've never had before. This isn't an act of charity; he rescued one young girl from the Thénardiers ten years ago, and he is glad God has given him the chance to do it again.  
Nonetheless, you can't escape the feeling that you are _wrong_ for this house. Used to having to shout over the racket in the streets, your voice echoes off the high ceilings. You walk in wide strides that are more suited to the slums than a neighborhood with houses and gardens. Out of habit, you still peek into rooms to make sure they're empty and check over your shoulder to see if you're being followed. You don't even realize you're doing it until Cosette starts to ask you about it. Fabre gives her a meaningful look, which makes her stop speaking in mid-sentence.  
  
After two days, Marius comes to call on Cosette. Thanks to your keen ability to find people, he knows her address and can call on her properly instead of adoring her from afar. She looks happy, her cheeks flushed by the light of the sun and her eyes wide. You try to stay out of sight; you're not sure you trust yourself not to explode if you see Marius with _her,_ both of the bursting with happiness.

* * *

You've noticed that there aren't any paintings in the house of Cosette's mother; there are no mementos from a wedding, none of the usual feminine trinkets you would find stashed away in most attics. There is no resemblance between Cosette and Monsieur Fabre.  
  
You ask him about this one afternoon when he comes in from tending the roses. His face is streaked with sweat. He looks his age for the first time. There are lines in his face. Some of them are small, like wrinkles in fine linen. Others are deeper, more defined, and plainly show the years he has been alive. His hair looks more silver than white in this low light, like the candle holders you tried to pilfer last night. This catches your attention. Over the years, your eyes have been trained to notice silver before any other color.  
"I'm not really her father," he tells you. He stares at you for a long moment. "I cared for her mother," he continues, "it seemed only right that I should raise Cosette as my own child."  
Distractedly, he runs his fingers over the buttons of his shirt. He keeps his dress shirts buttoned all the way to the neck, and is constantly checking to make sure they haven't come loose. He realizes that you're watching him, and stops. With a tired smile, he tells you, "I don't know a man in the world who doesn't have secrets. I'll trust you to keep mine safe."  
You wonder why he thinks that secrets are any safer in your possession than sterling teaspoons, but decide that you do a pretty good job keeping your own secrets. It shouldn't be too hard to guard someone else's.


	3. How Not to Rebel Against the French Army

For all his faults, there was one thing your papa understood: you have to stay alive. This is a lesson well worth remembering these days, when sickness sweeps through the neighborhoods like wildfire, claiming victims from almost every family you know. Children have to be fed, the police have to be paid off, and honesty is a luxury few people can afford these days. You haven't forgotten that just because a man with a false name has given you a temporary home.  
It's not hard to sneak from the streets outside of Paris to the city, especially is you hide your hair under your cap and stick to the shadows. Inside your blouse, you have a handful of coins you found in the old man's coat, a string of pearls from Cosette's armoire, and a few silver teaspoons that your mother can sell to a silversmith for bread money. These few objects feel strangely heavy, and the guilt leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. But the thought of Gavroche and Azelma going for days without food while you are safe and protected makes you feel even worse.

When you start to feel too guilty, you remind yourself that you _did_ save the old man's life. Surely a few trinkets are worth less to him than that? Yet, the only thing you can think about is what Marius would say if he knew.

Marius has been to call on Cosette several times, and she always spends the next few days humming dance hall tunes while smiling to herself, flushed pink with girlish happiness. Most nights, you lie in your borrowed bed, for once not starving or kept awake by the noise. Still, you ache with a want that seems to be growing stronger. You should be grateful for the safety of the house and the food on your plate. But as the days pass, you realize that you never knew there were so many different ways to be hungry.

When you return in the late afternoon, it occurs to you that you could feasibly blackmail Cosette's "papa." Why not use your silence to pay for your family's rent and food? Your surname isn't Thénardier for nothing, after all.

But you find that you can't give that idea any serious consideration. You have a little pride left, a little integrity. You can't be trusted not to rifle through Cosette's things or to pocket a few pieces of silverware, but keeping secrets? You can spare him that basic kindness and decency. You're not sure you could even bring yourself to threaten him if you wanted to. For reasons you can't quite explain, the old man fascinates you. There's something about the way that he wears his wealth like a disguise, as if is as alien to him as it is to you.  
His house feels like a stage at the theater; it's not a place where people live, but a set meant to hide something behind a curtain. There are untouched books on shelves, and dishes imported from the East that never seem to be used. If you and Cosette didn't spend hours wiping every object in the cabinet, they would probably gather blankets of dust. It's almost as if someone made him a list of Things That Must Be in a Bourgeois Household, and he followed it to the letter.  
There's also a barely noticeable limp in one of his legs. Sometimes, he drags his ankle behind him as though he's pulling an invisible weight. It's usually worse in the early mornings, before he goes out to his garden to work.  
Maybe Marius was right when he said you didn't know the things he could find in books, but that doesn't mean you aren't smart. The fact that you're still alive is proof enough of that. You do _notice_ things other people don't. You have a feeling that the old man wasn't lying when he said he had secrets. He is probably deceiving everyone about just how many he is keeping.

* * *

Jean Maximilien Lamarque is dead.

The general fought as bravely against the disease as he did at Waterloo, but he died like everybody else in the world: pale, thin, and weakened by sickness. Even if you hadn't heard the news from Cosette, you'd be able to feel the tension in the city. The outbreak of violence looms over everyone like a stay of execution.

Before this morning, you'd heard Lemarque's name mentioned. It was impossible not to know him; he was the only person in government who spoke for the poor, the man your neighbors had pinned all their hopes on. Marius has always talked about revolution, but now, his speech has gotten less poetic and more intense. Cosette has locked herself in her room to compose a letter to the boy she loves; the boy who might not last the night.  


You can tell that the old man is thinking the same thing you are. Are these students seriously considering a revolution? A _real_ one? With death, and soldiers, and _guns?_ You can't even imagine Marius holding a gun. As for Enjolras, what does he plan to do? Talk the enemy soldiers to death? _  
_

Marius doesn't belong behind a barricade. He should be at a desk, writing pretty sounding nonsense and staring wistfully out the window. In a world where God had ordered things the way they were supposed to be, you'd be able to protect him from every bad thing that ever happened to people. You want to shield Marius from disease, dirt, and hunger. If you can't do that, you'd at least like to die by his side.  
If you're quick and quiet enough, you can cut through the alleyways to get to the bar, and find Marius before nightfall. Once the sunsets, there will be no getting in or out of the city. You have laced up your boots, and are running towards the back door of the house, when someone blocks your path.

It is the old man, clothed in a military dress uniform. As always, the dress shirt is tied tightly over his chest, but his cufflinks are still undone. He stops you before you can race out the door.

"Eponine," he says, before you can even protest "I promise I will find your family. I can get them to safety if-"

"No." you shake your head violently. It isn't your family you are desperate to see one last time. After sharing a house with you, Monsieur Fabre ought to have figured _that_ out. You are determined not to let him stand in your way. If this stranger wanted to be a father to you, he had his chance ten years ago.

"Please, Eponine," he begs, "stay here with Cosette."

"Why should I?" you demand. He closes his eyes, as though willing the right words to come into his mind.

"There is an inspector who has been around my house lately. I am trying to make sure he doesn't capture me on the way to the city."  
You draw in a sharp breath, quickly scanning the room for weapons. He shushes you, tells you to calm down, that he isn't a murderer. You stare at him, not quite convinced.

"Why is the law after _you_?" you ask.

"I broke a window and robbed a house forty years ago," he says, giving you a meaningful look, "I have been running from parole since before you were born."

"What'd you steal?" you ask, arms crossed.

"A loaf of bread."

So it wasn't just an old man's charity and kindness that made him want to take you off the streets and give you a respectable job; he saw himself in you. You wonder who gave _him_ the chance to escape his past.

Taking a deep breath, he undoes the very top two buttons of his shirt, letting the cravat dangle uselessly from his shoulders. Just below his collar bone, you can faintly see a set of numbers burned into his skin.

The brightly colored military uniform makes a strange contrast to prisoners' brand. Over the years, the skin has healed over the numbers, but they are still very much _there._ They damn him for the decades old crime of wanting to stay alive. Your eyes stay fixed on the numbers that, by all rights, should decorate your own skin.

"Did it hurt?" you hear yourself ask. You regret it immediately when you can feel the stupidity of that question ringing in your ears.

"It did," he says gently, "I was shackled to a rack, and held down to be branded like an animal." You wince, imagining the hot irons burning the numbers into his flesh. "it took weeks for the scars to form, and I had to keep working in the fields the whole time. I would sweat under the sun all day while the wound was still healing. It felt like it was on fire all the time." He pauses, and it seems as if even the memory is making him weary. You realize that he has probably never told anyone this before. He probably thinks he has told you too much, but you know these are the sorts of things that Cosette will never know after her papa leaves this world. These are the memories that somebody- _anybody-_ needs to hear.

"Tell me your name." you order.

"Fabre." he insists. You roll your eyes like a petulant child.

"Your _real_ name," you beg. Because he might not make it through the night, and somebody needs to know what to engrave on his tombstone.

"Valjean," he says softly. And you repeat it. It sounds like the real name of a real human being who is risking his life for a doomed rebellion. He motions for you to stay away from the window.

"The barricades are going up," you say, "won't all the policemen be in the city right now?"

" _This_ man will still be looking for me when the city falls into ruins," says Valjean.

So Paris is about to fall into riots, and the law is looking for a man who stole a loaf of bread several decades ago. Well, it makes about as much sense as anything else the Parisian police do.

You step past him, glancing out the window.

"Let me go first," you suggest, "if he sees me running away, he'll come after me."

This ploy used to work when you and your sister had to distract a shopkeeper. Azelma would dash out of the shop frantically while you filled your bag with stolen loot. It's risky; if he's a policeman, he might recognize you, but you are far enough away from San-Michele that it might work.

He stares at you like you have lost your mind.

"You'd truly rather be at the barricade than in the house?" You tell him you'd rather be at the barricade than anywhere else in the world. Marius needs you, and you have a little brother who is probably running around the kegs of stolen gunpowder like it's Christmas morning.  
He touches your shoulder gently, as though he hopes he can keep hold in place. But from the look in his eyes, you can tell he knows that it is a lost cause to save you. The girl who stole trinkets, but will carry his secrets to her grave. You take a deep breath, and then bolt into the night like a bullet shot from a musket.  


* * *

It is surprisingly easy to weave in between alleys and to climb through the fortress to the barricade. The army is busy looking for young men with guns; a young girl is hardly noticeable. With the help of a group of university students, you manage to push your way through the makeshift fortress.

The mood behind the barricade is surprisingly jovial. Marius' friends greet you like a long lost comrade, with loud cheers and kisses on the cheek. Their words are rushed, feverish with excitement. It doesn't take long to find Gavroche; he is helping Enjolras to build a makeshift bonfire. You rush to join them, scanning the crowd for Marius.

You dip your hands into the soot, smearing the ashes over your fingertips. Very carefully, you write the numbers into your forearm, careful to remember the ornate decorations on the 2, the 6, and the 1. It's an impulsive, childish gesture to write his numbers on your own skin. You tell yourself you're doing it only for luck. But the truth is even more silly and romantic.

You wear Monsieur Valjean's numbers because you may die tonight. If that happens, you want to make sure the world knows whose side you were on.


	4. How Not to Deliver a Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people have told me that the second person/present tense point of view is too whimsical and distracting. Though I like some things about it, I do see their point. Keeping up that style for several chapters hasn't been easy. I'm going to continue the rest of the chapters in this story in the same way, but I'm also working on an alternate version of this story that will be in third person/past tense. Hopefully, it should be easier to read (and write!).

Monsieur Valjean eyes the numbers on your arm. You can't tell if he's amused or angry.

"Isn't it bad enough that one of us has to wear those numbers?" he asks. You shrug.

"After tonight, it might not matter anymore," You hate to think of it, but it's a very real possibility. And part of the reason why you like Monsieur Valjean is because you figure he's just like you: not easy to scare away. He has been helping the students heave furniture, barrels, and everything else they can find to wall off the street.

Behind the barricade, it has gotten quiet. The last traces of the July sun have disappeared, and it is a little cooler. It is not peaceful, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it's calm, like the threatening, dangerous silence that comes just before a thunderstorm.

Valjean stops for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. There is a flash of something in his eyes; you aren't quite sure what. It makes him look older than he has before. He is still strong, but you have a feeling that something is weakening him. Running away for all those years must have taken their toll on him.

He sits down on an empty barrel, and you perch beside him on the broken pieces of a wooden chair.  
"Why are you walking like that?" you ask, pointing to his left leg.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," you tell him, "it's almost like something is holding you back." He smiles sadly.

"Old habit from doing hard labor while being in chains, I suppose," he says, "Sometimes, I get so tired, Éponine. But at least I have Cosette."

You feel like your heart might break every time you imagine the old man chained up with other prisoners. You decide to change the subject.

"Tell me about her mother. How did she get to be your daughter?" You know there's a trace of bitterness in your voice. You are trying to hide it, but it still creeps in. It still doesn't seem fair that some little girls get to be whisked away from the inn to live in proper houses, and some don't. If Valjean hears the resentment in your voice, he graciously ignores it.

"I found her mother in a hospital," he says, "She'd been trying to get enough money to pay... a debt."

"My parents, you mean." He doesn't flinch. He probably knows that nothing he says about your father will surprise you. If it happened, it happened.

"She had sold both of her front teeth," he continues, "and her hair. She was feverish when we got her to the hospital."

"She sounds ugly," you say, wrinkling your nose.

"She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. So brave." He sighs, "She had sacrificed everything for that little girl. She had a kind of strength in her. I see the same strength in Cosette."

Then, after a pause, he adds, "I see it in you too, Éponine."

You sit with him in silence, because there's nothing you can think of to say.

An old memory stirs from somewhere within you. It is one of the few truly good ones you have of this part of the city.

About a year ago you were in Marius' apartment, sitting on the floor with one of his schoolbooks open.

"I can read a little of this," you admitted, "but most of the words are bigger than the ones I learned how to read and write."

"Well, a lot of them are in Latin," he said. And you smiled. "You speak Latin, Marius? Say something in Latin."

He blushed.

"I can't just... say something in Latin." You couldn't help giggling just a bit.

"Can you read this to me?"

He picked up the book, and he started to read a passage about Caesar and something called the Rubicon.

And that was the moment.

That was the moment when you knew you loved Marius. You would have gladly married him, rich family or no, just to hear him stumble over words in an ancient language and talk about books. You liked him, genuinely liked his kindness and the soft, refined way he spoke. He wasn't like the other men who lived in your building. Marius never raised his voice, never called anyone names. He was like a new handkerchief; all clean and perfectly ironed.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear a familiar voice.

"Éponine! What in God's name are you doing here?" And you turn around, smiling.  
"Fighting for the rights of the people," you say, parroting the words Enjolras used, "and it's nice to see you too."

Marius presses his lips together, as though he is trying not to shout. To be honest, it's rather endearing.  
"You really shouldn't be here, Éponine. I'm sure we can get you home if-"

And finally, something inside of you snaps.

"Why does everyone think I want to go home?" you cry. Then you wince because it feels like your voice is echoing all over the barricades.

Marius lowers his voice to a whisper.

"Éponine, can you do just one thing for me?" asks Marius.

"Anything," you reply, and your heart is pounding in your ears because he is so close. You could easily run your fingers through his hair and reach up just enough, and press your lips to his, and...

He places an envelope in your hand.

"Take this to Cosette for me, and for the love of all that is good, stay away from the barricades."  
You examine the envelope. Her name is on the back, with curves around the letters. You can feel your eyes start to water a bit; you'll never seen your name written in those perfect little swirls.  
No, please not now. You think. You're doing everything you can not to cry, and God knows you've managed not to a million times before. Without permission, hot and salty tears form in your eyes and spill over your cheeks.

"I will do it," you say in a mechanical voice. Marius smiles, and it reaches all the way to his eyes and beyond.

"Thank you, Éponine," he whispers, and gives you a kiss on the cheek. Your skin is still warm beneath the spot where his lips touced you. There is no stopping the tears now.

Well, there's no time for that now, you decide. You start to climb up the south wall of the barricade, lightly climbing up. When you reach the top, there is an ear shattering sound.

You can feel more than hear yourself screaming. The sound of your own voice is very far away. Your limbs fail you, and you feel yourself plummeting towards the ground like a sack of flour, bouncing gracelessly on the cobblestones. Over the ringing of your ears, you can hear several voices shouting. Out of the racket, you can pick out Marius' voice screaming _Éponine! Éponine! Can you hear me?_

  
You try to find move your lips around sounds, to tell him that yes, you are still here, but all that comes out is a moan. He is grasping your hand so tightly that it hurts; his voice has gone hoarse from screaming your name. He doesn't want you to go, and you want to stay with him, but the world is going all dark and fuzzy around the edges.

You aren't even scared right now. You can only focus on one word: _breathe_.

You manage to mutter a curse before everything goes black.


End file.
